Tushar Srivastav
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Chapter 6: The Boy Who Remembered
🕑 Added 2025-06-28 19:30:00 +0000 UTCBy the second month of school, Ayaan could sing the "Saved by the Bell" theme song without missing a beat. He knew what a Lunchable was. He had a favourite Ninja Turtle (Donatello) and a favourite soda (Grape Fanta) and had learned to time his bathroom breaks so he wouldn't get called on in math.
By all appearances, he was adapting well to his American childhood.
But inside, he still lived like a man pacing the green room, waiting to go onstage.
He played the role of a 7-year-old American boy with growing precision. At school, he giggled at Ren & Stimpy and quoted Jim Carrey. He let his friends teach him hand-clap games, picked up slang, and even tried skateboarding once, though he hated the feeling of falling in public. At home, he carefully recorded episodes of "Friends" and "Full House," not because he loved them but because their rhythm taught him how to belong.
Yet every so often, the act slipped. For instance, when Ayaan used the word "melancholy" in class, his teacher blinked twice before feigning understanding. Or when he asked the lunch lady about turmeric in the school curry, and she looked at him like he was making it up.
He was learning how to hide his past life inside a present body. But it wasn't easy.
---
*Flashback: Mumbai, 2012*
Rain hammered the tin roof of the studio waiting room. Raghav sat among a dozen other hopefuls, all men in various shades of khaki, sweat and nervousness. They had been called for a minor part in a web series pilot—a father delivering bad news over the phone. No face time, just voice and hands.
Raghav had practised all night. The monologue wasn't long, but it had a soul. He delivered it to the cracked mirror in his flat, trying to find the right tone: grief without melodrama.
When his turn came, the casting assistant didn't even look up from her clipboard.
"Next," she said.
He walked in, gave his slate, and delivered the lines.
"Too heavy," the director said, already waving in the next man. "We want a light, kind of sad. Younger."
The door closed behind him like a final cue. He stood in the corridor, soaked from the monsoon and rejection.
---
*Now, Los Angeles, 1997*
That memory always returned when Ayaan sat alone in his room after dinner, flipping through the basic cable channels.
Sometimes, he paused on the classic movie channel, watching old performances by Marlon Brando or Sidney Poitier. He studied their expressions, their stillness. Sometimes, he repeated their lines under his breath.
On other nights, he mimicked what he saw on primetime. He practised the sarcasm of Chandler Bing. The goofy sweetness of Cory Matthews. Even the nasally flair of Steve Urkel.
He didn't just watch television. He studied it.
Zoey caught him once behind the portable stage in the school auditorium. He was mid-mimic, doing Al Pacino from "Scent of a Woman."
"Are you... acting?" she asked.
"No," he said instinctively, then softened. "Yeah. Sort of."
"You're good. Better than the kids on TV."
He shrugged. "It's just practice."
"Practice for what?"
He paused. "Maybe something bigger."
---
On the walk home from school one Friday, Ayaan passed the little independent bookstore near the corner of Magnolia and Westmore. In the front window, nestled between a display of new Goosebumps books and an oversized Garfield plush toy, was a red-and-gold-covered hardback.
He stopped in his tracks.
"Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone."
His breath caught.
That wasn't supposed to be here. Not yet. Not in the U.S. It didn't arrive here until 1999.
He ran inside, heart pounding. The store smelled of ink, paper, and cinnamon. He found the copy, opened the front flap, and checked the publication line.
"1997. Bloomsbury Publishing. U.K. import."
A ripple of relief passed through him. So the world hadn't gone completely off track. Maybe some kid had a bookish aunt in London. Perhaps the owner liked foreign titles.
He thumbed through the familiar pages. So much of what was ahead remained intact. It grounded him.
Not everything had changed—just me.
Then, a new thought struck him—a wild, electric thought.
He could change everything.
He could get ahead of it. If he played this right, this book could be more than a comfort. It could be a key.
He checked the price. \$17.95. A painful bite out of his allowance and saved-up lunch money, but he didn't hesitate. He bought it, tucked it under his arm like a secret, and ran home.
That night, while his father worked late at his home office, Ayaan stayed up sketching out a plan. He wrote in tiny, neat print:
*Harry Potter - Movie Rights. Get Dad to help.*
He opened a fresh page and labelled it *The Plan* in all caps:
1. *Re-read the Book* — Take notes on key themes, characters, and imagery that would translate well to the screen.
2. *Make a Pitch Document* — Create a simple adaptation outline from a child's POV. Something emotional, magical, and sellable for dad
3. *Find Dad’s Connection* — Ask about Mark Silver again. Casually.
4. *Hook Dad with the Story* — Read chapters aloud, get him emotionally invested.
5. *Suggest Movie Potential* — Ask: "Wouldn't this make a great movie?"
6. *Convince Him to Reach Out* — Say it'd be fun to reconnect with Mark. Bring up how successful book movies are.
7. *Be Patient but Persistent* — Mention it again during dinner. After singing. While walking. Plant seeds.
Rishi had worked in sound mixing for a few minor films and had brushed shoulders with a few low-level Hollywood producers back in the day, mostly during college through his UCLA roommate, Mark Silver. He mentioned him once, in passing. Mark now did something at Warner Bros., though they hadn't spoken in years.
It was a long shot.
But it was something.
Ayaan knew how Hollywood worked. He had lived in the shadows of Bollywood long enough to understand that being first mattered. Being lucky mattered more.
And no one in America had seen what he had just bought.
He tore another page from his notebook and began storyboarding scenes:
A lonely cupboard under the stairs, lit by a shaft of light.*
The first broom ride, sky swelling with John Williams-style music.*
Hogwarts at night, candles floating above a feast.*
He could see it. He could feel it.
And maybe, just maybe, this wasn't about money. It wasn't even about fame. It was about having a hand in something magical.
A door he had never had in his past life was cracked open. This time, he wasn't going to miss his cue.
